He had to. He was a person, after all; it was only natural that he would have a face. Many had seen it, too - he was well known amongst the soldiers who'd fought beneath the Lord of Ice, as well as the frightened people who had survived the Shattering to find their resilience rewarded with an open grave of a world.
He had a voice, too. Of course he had one. It was the first thing many had heard clearly after everything they'd ever known had been ripped away from beneath their feet; it had been a welcome respite from the dust and sweat of the arena for those who'd either kicked him bloody or had gotten beaten by him.
They had become hard to remember.
What was left of him was mostly the memory of his heavy gait, of his wheezing groans.
Certavus had struggled.
He had struggled through the Core War, through the Shattering, through the first chaos-riddled years of Bara Magna. He had struggled to keep as many alive as he could by any means necessary, whether his own kin or not, as if the entire Agori populace had nothing and nobody else to rely on; he had struggled through a body that couldn't take what his endless will (desperation?) begged and screamed of him.
When had it started? His steep, terrifying decline? It was hard to remember. It didn't matter.
His grave had been decorated with bones, horns, barren branches, empty shells - an arrow, pointing downwards, as Ice Tribe tradition dictates. A replica had been made in Tajun, according to their belief that the copy of a holy place is only a fake when it is met by no faith; Iconox had allowed its existence in an agreeable silence, allowed the fleeting kinship of a shared icon.
Glatorian of all tribes let his name heat their lips with prayers.
Who else could they turn to? Who else but him, patron of their eternal war that killed no one, that truly kept the peace?
That was everything that was left of him: a saint.
A saint of struggle.
With a hollow middle and an arrow through it, pointed upwards, the hint of a terrible pain in his pose - arms stretched wide, pushing and pulling between life and death.
How old had he been? Young. The door to the rest of his life had stood open behind him.
He hadn't even seen it all settle.
He hadn't died quickly, felled in battle with a swift dance and a bloody arch carving the bright sky above him, with the vague flash of a relieved smile on a sleeping face frozen in time like a perfect funerary mask.
He had dragged himself through his endless agony for what had seemed like an eternity as his organs collapsed one after the other, their flesh replaced with steel and rubber, his blood no longer able to worm its warmth into them. He had heaved and lived through them until the prosthetics too had been worn into failure, until the hiss of his new insides had begun threatening to burst out of him and tear apart what little there was still of real within his guts.
Certavus had died on the way to his deathbed.
His corpse had been found knelt at the side of the mattress, clinging onto the covers.
The rigor mortis had lasted for hours. His muscles had kept twitching, gripping tight, still trying to climb in; still struggling.
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One of the most important structures in all of Xia, this giant arena is the largest in all of Xia and serves as a uniting point for the island, located at the center and meeting point of all six districts.
Said to have been around since the very beginning of Xia’s industrial age, the Coliseum Atero is a massive, metallic stadium lined with massive spires that curve into the air, as well as a giant tower in the very middle of the arena. The arena floor is comprised of countless, hexagonal pillars made of protodermis that can rise up or sink down, in order to change the environment for various purposes.
Functioning almost as a capital for Xia, the Coliseum Atero is where the most prestigious nobles, aristocrats, and members of the Powers That Be gather for parties, events, and tournaments. The most auspicious and grand of ceremonies and events are held here, with audience members watching from the stands. Massive speakers and screens transmit audio and videos, helping to show messages from broadcasters and display what is going on in the arena floor below.
The Coliseum Atero was initially built to honor the system of gladiator fighting, as well as the title of Glatorian, with a statue of the hero Certavus set up in front of its entrance. Here, the most prized and famous Glatorian champions duel, occasionally to the death, as spectators watch. It is a luxury stadium, with tickets and seats generally being the most expensive in all of Xia, and the Coliseum Atero is intended for use mainly by the Xian elite; Although certain, select occasions will allow the commoners to attend as well. Special, cut-off areas and boxes amongst the seats are set up, with clear windows to divide the elite from the common-folk as they enjoy pristine air-conditioning and are attended to by servants, with plush luxury seats to rest upon.
Unsurprisingly, the perimeter has multiple guards of mechanical and living origin, as well as a couple of Exo-Toa. There are six main entrances, one pointed in the direction of each district; Certavus’ statue is located in front of the Zakaz entrance. Lines to go inside of the Coliseum Atero can be incredibly long, with most nobles ordering privileged seats in advance while regular Xians have to buy tickets up-front. Ticket prices are usually high, but if the Powers That Be intend for an event to be seen by many, they will be lowered.
There are also additional entrances, for fighters, workers, performers, and other staff to enter the Coliseum Atero through. Once inside the walls, there are many rooms to filter out and send audience members to the stands. Multiple shops selling food and souvenirs can be found, acting as a small mall. The backstage areas are of course cut off, and the clean, dark hallways of the Coliseum are regularly cleaned and kept polish. The Coliseum Atero is meant for the elite and the champions, and so its appearance must reflect this.
Multiple events are held within the Coliseum Atero. There are gladiator matches, with Glatorian fighters prepped backstage before entering to the cheers of thousands. Some fights are battle royales, others are duels; And others can include beasts and bioweapons, to liven things up as a hazard. There are control panels that workers can operate to direct the formation of pillars; They can rise up to form a wall, provide places to climb up, hinder fighters, and so forth. Pillars can be lowered to reveal pitfalls, or else serve as entrances for other fighters and beasts to be lifted into the arena through.
These protodermis pillars can also perform a ‘Sea of Protodermis’ formation, where rows rise up and retract, one after the other to create a brutal ‘wave’ in the arena floor. Again, this is all for the sake of creating challenges as fighters compete for victory, while athletes show off their physical prowess in tournaments. Akilini competitions are held amongst raised-pillars, high above the ground. The flexibility of the protodermis pillars allows for just about any event, and they can form walls around fighters and beasts to keep them contained should an event end.
Beneath the arena and its walls, hordes of equipment, as well as barracks and stations for guards and Vahki units, are held. Here, pipes hold hazards such as poisonous gases or water to flood the arena, and Trydahk Pods contain any manner of surprises. Cages hold beasts of combat, as well as the occasional bioweapon designed by the Nynrah Ghosts.
Only the most esteemed Glatorian are allowed to compete in the Coliseum Atero, in front of Xia’s most prestigious upper-class, and even the Powers That Be. They will go through a wide variety of challenges, both for entertainment and to show just how skilled they truly are. Tournaments and gauntlets are held for gladiatorial matches, as well as for sports events involving athletes. Island Cups are almost always held in the Coliseum Atero, and it continues to be a popular tourist site of attraction. Famous celebrities and characters have regularly posed in front of the Coliseum Atero, or even performed in it, such as Kratakal himself! Performances and shows are also common here, with the pillars helping to enhance the experience.
For particularly chaotic matches, a dome-shaped, clear force-field will be generated to protect the audience from any rogue dangers. Otherwise, they are totally safe as they cheer on contestants or performers, or even boo and jeer at them, sometimes throwing food and trash at ‘losers’. If a loser is not slain, the area they are on will be lowered symbolically, while victors are raised high above all others in glory.
Accessible from beneath the arena is the Coliseum Atero’s central tower, a massive spire that is visible and prominent amongst Xia’s skyline alongside the stadium itself. The tallest structure in all of Xia, in terms of height this tower is rivalled only by The Mountain itself. Here, only the Powers That Be, alongside select esteemed guests, can visit and access the rooms in this tower. Some contain control-panels and security rooms, while many other chambers are for partying and include pools, bars, massage-areas, and so forth. Luxurious bedrooms are available for invited guests, while only the most loyal and proven of servants are allowed to work here.
Within the tower, beautiful parties of the highest degree are held, reserved only for the elite of the elite. Here, it is said that one can see the most powerful and mysterious of the Powers That Be, and even interact with them; But from a distance, of course. Very few know what is exactly at the top of the Coliseum’s tower, but supposedly it contains the personal living quarters for the highest Powers That Be, who regularly hold and attend meetings here, discuss stocks, and make other plans as they survey all of Xia from one-way windows. Rumors and outlandish stories of what goes up there are inevitable, and some describe the tower’s peak as the closest point in Xia to heaven itself. To be invited to perform services in the tower is one of the greatest honors in all of life.
On the outside of the tower is an elevator-platform, from which the Powers That Be can personally watch events, make announcements, and hold the occasional party. This massive platform can climb all the way up to the very top of the tower, and each ‘stop’ connects it to one of the floors on the tower. This platform is also granted an invisible force-field to protect those inside, and supposedly, the Powers That Be will hold some of the finest celebrations in Xian history on this platform, as it is raised to the highest possible setting near the skies. They say at the top of the tower, one can pass their fingers and almost grace the sky itself…
The Coliseum Atero is joinly-owned by the Powers That Be, but its most powerful members possess the most control. It is not uncommon to see the likes of Turaga Dume give out fanatical speeches of propaganda to the Xian populace, while others narrate and enjoy from afar the brutality in the arena below. Athletes are subject to a wide variety of increasing challenges, while Glatorian are sometimes subject to an endless gauntlet of animals, bioweapons, and lesser fighters to take down and defeat. The cheers are loud and rampant amongst the rafters, and everytime a major victory is held, it is not uncommon for gold flakes to be pumped out of machines and shower the champions. There are also public executions, alas, and in such situations the common Xian will be allowed to enter for free just to watch.
Following the restoration of Spherus Magna and the induction of the Agori/Glatorian into the new social system, the two disciples of Certavus sought to continue their trainer's great work.
With the Book of Certavus recovered, Vastus and Gelu have thrown themselves into the practice of penning down all their mentor's teachings, continuing his good work and training others in the ancient fighting style.
Constructing a training center on the outskirts of where Tesara used to be located, Gelu and Vastus welcome any warriors willing to make the journey to the Temple of Certavus, offering them their wisdom and insights.
No Elemental Powers were permitted in these training sessions, allowing all students to be on equal footing. Having lost their Elemental Powers for a time, the Toa Nuva would soon recommend that the training program be made mandatory for all new recruits.
Toa Jaller and Kongu were known to have taken the course several times.
Once a new Book of Certavus was scribed in both the Agori and Matoran languages, the pair were known to have hired Tarix as a collaborator and consulted the newest wave of Toa and Glatorian warriors in the ancient art of combat.
Heavy footsteps on muffling sand, armored shoes. Metal plates shifting against something soft (scales scratched, feathers rustled, mucus squelched and creaked; fleece was unwelcome and unwanted, unallowed entrance). A slow, deliberate stop, right behind him. No following whispered shriek of an unsheathed weapon.
"Evening," he snarled.
"Evening," he was replied.
Dusk lowered into the horizon behind Certavus, coating his face in shadow. The waning light bleached the outline of his summer coat's greyish pattern until it was all but indistinguishable from the still white parts of his fur, much like he was all but indistinguishable from any other Koniri without his helmet.
But it had to be him. Nobody else had that presence - that voice.
Vastus remained crouched in the sand, glaring up at him. Snakeskin-covered bones crackled as his grip tightened slightly around them.
"You didn't have an easy start, I've heard."
He'd lost that damn fight. The first one in an official capacity, after Ackar had done all that work to convince the Agori this was a good idea - of course, somebody had to lose. The point of it was that somebody had to lose, and lose gracefully, without inciting revenge, so that they would prove this was a better way to live than to risk extinguishing the species over the first menial spat that came to mind.
Vastus had not lost gracefully.
Not that the public would know. He'd been a proper sap-sweet soldier in there, yielding when asked to, standing up straight when all he'd wanted to do was slink into a hole to lick his wounds and walking out with dignity.
I hold no grudge, that wretched display of defeat had said: This was a fair, honorable fight, and no blood was shed. We shall pay our debt but keep ourselves, and thus we will be able to prosper still, and one day win back what we lost against those who challenged us. See? This is better than war. The only wound is on my pride, and it stings less than to be stabbed in the gut.
Then, away from the crushing weight of the ears and eyes of the world, he'd turned with venom pouring from his pupils and spat: CUNT!
Tarix had laughed.
He'd tried to strangle him.
"You shouldn't talk to me, Koniri," Vastus hissed.
"I can't see why not."
Snow.
Snow like... Like nothing before. Like fog so thick you could bite chunks out of it. Trace pictures on it with a finger, like a child.
He'd never seen so much snow before. Not very common, in the jungle.
It rolled down like clouds on rainstorm season. Down and down and down. All the way, until it laid sweetly on the plain; all the way, until it covered everything, completely.
"You were sharper in the war."
"My kidneys, certainly. They've been giving me an awful lot of grief these days."
"Shut it. What's your business with me?"
"You do understand it doesn't set a pleasant precedent to try and kill an opponent behind closed doors after a match."
"It won't happen again."
"Not even with Tarix?"
Clanging and clamoring, quiet shrieks of weapons stalling as they lock. Sweetwater breath from a sharp mirthless smirk, slithering like eels into his feathers.
What now?
Crescent pupils, still, twitching imperceptibly.
Think you can slip my blades from my own hands, too?
"If he had the good sense of biting his own tongue off, we wouldn't need this conversation."
Certavus stood quietly for a moment. The sky behind him was melting into a purplish tone, sinking as if its end were tied to a stone into the unpleasant blues of night's endless marsh; like magic, his white fur adapted to the shift in hue and slowly morphed into the greyish coat, his body's personal imitation game reversed.
Wouldn't this be a marvelous standoff.
The Lords' champions, poisoned trickery and skillful mastery incarnate - what honor, what splendid honor. What wartime tale could be taxidermied out of it.
"You've come to kill me," Vastus murmured.
Hopeful.
He watched a cruel wind push behind the other's long ears.
"That'd be beyond uncouth," the Koniri replied. "Moreso, as I'm a guest in Tesara."
A hand barely disguising its shivers gestured widely before him: "There's much sand away from these stumps," the Lebori whispered. "Many too tall dunes eyes can't reach beyond. Who knows what happens behind them. Blood flows in rivers all the time, in the desert."
No movement: "I would hate to do that."
"BULLSHIT!"
Thin teeth bared, feathers rattling like the tails of a snake. Muscles taut, eyes wide: heaving.
He couldn't make out a single feature on that darkened face.
"Don't put on your demented act around me, Koniri," Vastus hissed: "You know who I am. You know what your tribe knows me for. Now walk with me into this cold night and cut me as I have cut through that mountainside, like you must."
"For whose sake?" Certavus replied. "Not mine, for sure. Is it that of my Lord of Ice, just to amuse him, or of your Lord of Jungle, so he can quench his bloodlust?"
"For the sake of your fucking murdered kin, maggot! Bastard! Cunt!"
He screamed every insult he knew as hard as he could, tearing his throat in two, feeling the flesh peel and crinkle, shrivel like exoskeletons split in half during a molt and fall into his lungs, filling them with a floury powder as it was crushed against the spongy walls, jumping at each contraction of his diaphragm until it climbed back into his esophagus, burning like wildfire into the cuts it had left behind until it coated his tongue and pasted it into a useless muscle, furred, heavy, good only for choking.
He coughed hard into the sand, hacking what remained of his intestines onto it, expecting to see old scales crumpled and cracked; all that met his eyes were drops of spit and phlegm.
At last, after digging through every crevice of his body he could think to reach, he found no strength to keep screaming with.
His fingers lost their grasp on too soft ground.
Vastus collapsed into the cooling grains.
It hurt so much.
"I confess some part of me - a part I'm in the habit of smothering - would be tempted, if you showed any pride in having done it."
A wheeze, a groan: "Don't think I'm being pathetic on purpose."
"I know."
What relief.
For what it counted, what relief.
"Or," Certavus continued: "I'd consider it, maybe, if killing you now would stop the avalanche then."
Oh, the Lebori thought: Such a splendid thing to imagine.
To retrace shed skin. To wear it again, shiny and new as if just freed, and change the pattern bound to follow.
"If it would keep your arm still just a moment more," that voice, that presence murmured, weaving marvelous possible pasts into his mind: "If it would assign you to a different spot, or give you a different objective; if it would simply remove you altogether, twisting destiny in a shape that accomodates for your life to never lead you into theirs."
Such a splendid thing to dream.
"But it won't."
"No."
"It won't."
"No, it won't."
Bastard truth.
There was still a sliver of light, a last sliver slipping below the dead horizon, yellow and orange and red and purple. Slipping away.
"What do you want?" the Lebori asked softly, roughly.
"To spar with you," the Koniri replied.
Cold crept across the dunes on millions of little feet, light enough not to leave imprints, nonsensically dancing across every inch of their slopes in methodical serenity.
Yanking himself to a kneel, Vastus held the clothed skeleton.
He let it roll and coil around his fingers - how it moved swiftly, how it slithered and shifted! An perfect illusion of life curled in the carefully bending ribs beneath the cloth of its last painted skin, so true that one might worry the fangs below its lack of lips, at any point, could lurch and sink into the feathery limb's veins, inject their terrible venom and replace it with his blood just to see what might have killed him faster: the poison's work, or the dried arteries.
Silent, private prayers timed themselves on its well-threaded repeating paths across feathered arms.
Always the same request, always the same. To all who'd come before and all who'd come after, to the plumed serpents whose shed down he was the progeny of, always the same request.
Always the same.
Red eyes opened tiredly.
"You can wait till tomorrow, can't you."
Certavus didn't answer the lack of question. He walked to Vastus, slipped an arm under his, helped him to his exhausted feet: off they walked, back to the village, below the twin remains of colossal trees.
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They'd laid him down on a bed while he wheezed loudly, tears still streaming down white fur from the strain the sudden crisis had put on his body even as he remained unconscious. Ackar, allowed to watch over him thanks to his quick reflexes and good manners, observed uneasily the furred stomach twist and spasm against the prosthetic entrails squirming within it.
All he had to do was call out for the fixers if Certavus awoke.
A simple job. Especially for someone so tense.
But Koniri were a quiet breed, terrifyingly quiet, terrifyingly subtle in their movements - and as it had happened time and time again in the Core War he found himself almost jumping in his seat when a finger grazed him.
He held it back in his hand by reflex before even meeting the rhomboidal pupils. They were glossy, wavering in their sheen.
For a long moment, Ackar forgot his simple job.
They breathed together.
Everything was fine.
Then tired eyelids flickered, a raucous whimper arose from a soft neck, and Certavus trembled.
"I dreamt," he began, but the rest of his voice broke on itself.
His friend leaned down on him and tried to soothe him with clumsy hands, tried to call out for someone only to find any words he might have used stuck inside the pit of his stomach. He tried to roll him on his side so that he could breathe better, but the Glatorian felt so heavy, as if magnetized to the cot.
"I dreamt," Certavus tried again, and again worsened.
"Breathe," Ackar instructed him uselessly, clinging onto the hand that had slipped into his palm, doing everything to keep his hairs from raising and his ears from unfurling and his skin from dripping mucus as fear threatened to overtake him: "Hush, hush, breathe--"
"I--"
"Hush! Hush, breathe first. Breathe. Try to breathe. Follow me."
His were pitiful breaths, shaking and too shallow, but he tried. Spirits of fire, he tried.
The Koniri copied him as best as he could, and somehow, between their awful efforts, they miraculously managed to smooth his throat and free his lungs enough that the phonemes he so badly needed to speak into the air ceased to catch into the edges of his flesh.
"I dreamt... I dreamt... Mabara Bitri..."
That name, that name... He'd mentioned it before, hadn't he? Something about life, about - a strange girl, with long stained teeth and frightening eyes. "The other saint of yours?"
"I was," Certavus continued, eyes to the ceiling, as if he hadn't heard him: "Waist deep, in snow... My stomach... My stomach, hollowed - and Mabara Bitri, in front- in front of me, running weightless, leaving n-no, no footprint, running... Running... I-I tried to run, after her - crawled in the snow, after her - while she ran and, ran, and ran, and ran, away from me, away... Laughing..."
He convulsed on the bed with a harsh cough.
"I crawled, on, on my hands and knees, after her, but she was - she was running, and her voice grew softer, softer... I couldn't - I couldn't reach her. I couldn't..."
"Breathe," Ackar insisted: "Breathe. Rest."
"I felt the pelts - the pelts, on my back--"
"Pelts?"
"Our pelts, our- our hides, our... Skin and f-fur, across... Generations of our, our tribe... I felt - my stomach, in- in my stomach, the arrow of--"
His words were cut off by a horrible rattle. The Tapyri grabbed him tight in his embrace, trying to hold him down, to keep him steady, to somehow squeeze the pain out of him. The machines in the other's gut lurched forth towards wet skin, as if desperately trying to grasp back at Ackar; he crushed the disgust and terror between his arms and kept holding until their thrashing quieted, until the coughing subsided.
He did not let go.
Maybe, if he did not let go, it wouldn't happen again.
Maybe, if he did not let go, Certavus would never suffer again.
A weak hand laid on his side. He turned his head slightly: brown eyes replied with a tired gaze, tears still sullying the white around them.
"There," Ackar whispered with a trembling voice: "It's passed."
His fingers ran clumsily through the thick fur. Tufts of an old winter coat that refused to be shed off clung to the mucus coating them and ripped themselves painlessly from the Glatorian's back.
"All passed."
"I will die soon," Certavus murmured.
His friend flinched harshly.
"Don't be like that."
"It haunts me. Awake and asleep, it haunts me. I'm certain."
"It was just a nightmare. Just a fever dream."
"Saints do not have fever dreams, Ackar." his voice was faint and soft, his touch gentle, light. How else could have been the touch of their thankless profession's patron - of the peace-keeper, the abandoned soldier able to see past the grief and sand, to still struggle towards life. "Saints do not have visions. We have certainties, awake and asleep, and they haunt us, awake and asleep."
"You're such a superstitious lot." How old was he? He couldn't be older than him. He couldn't die like this. So painfully. So soon. "A few days of rest, that's all you need. Then it'll pass."
Retired Agori sentry from the Ice Tribe. Styled thusly as a tip of the hat to Arctica, Floxane is one of the few members of the Ice Tribe who is not motivated by greed or personal ambition.
For a time she looked up to Certavus as the tribe's shining moral beacon, having served under him in the Core War. In more recent times, however, she has grown thoroughly unimpressed by the underhanded tactics of Strakk and all but renounced Iconox as her home. Roughly three years ago she migrated to the city of Atero.
As one of the few female Agori in the Ice Tribe, Floxane is assumed to be a survivor of the Great Decline, a period in which a potent virus swept across the planet and wiped out most of the child-bearing populace. This headcanon, along with the inspiration to build an original female Agori, belongs to @nicrophorus-americanus.
Having retired from a life as Iconox’s secondary Glatorian, Gelu is a solitary character who cares deeply for his tribe. Having trained under Certavus, he and Vastus share the memory of his teachings and the weight of his legacy.
